Last summer, I moved into a tiny attic studio, and feeling bereft at the loss of outside space, bought a tonne of herbs to grow on the windowsill. The basil plant was the only one which didn’t die. It fast became the first thing I spoke to in the morning and the last thing I spoke to at night. I used it in everything and everyone commented on how delicious my food had become.
Overburdened by being in constant demand, my basil plant soon became lopsided and sparse, its verdant green leaves translucent with weakness. Those who had formerly sung its praises were quick to comment that it was starting to look a bit pathetic. Why don’t you throw it away and get another one? They said, basil plants are cheap as chips, but I ignored them, coveting mine like Gollum with his ‘precious’, vowing never to throw it anywhere.
A month or so after I moved in, I discovered my neighbour in the fancy garden flat had the exact same basil plant as me. He invited me in for tea after an unfortunate altercation about the TV aerial, and as the kettle rumbled into life, I spotted the immaculate 2 foot verdure on the windowsill.
My neighbour clocked my admiring gaze and looked smug as anything. Mine’s not half as tall as yours, I said, pointing at his herbaceous magnificence. That’s probably because you don’t understand how to grow basil, he mansplained to me, you have to let the water drain right through, see? I nodded like an obedient dog, as if this had never occurred to me. Do you use it for cooking? I squeaked. Yep, all the time, he said, far too quickly, having clearly never picked a single leaf. But still, I indulged him.
We hung out every week after that, always on his terms, in his flat. Once he popped up to briefly mock my basil, which was desperately trying to replenish itself in a bid to compete with the gigantic show plant downstairs.
When Summer was over, my neighbour suddenly vanished, his flat empty, save for the magnificent basil plant still sitting proudly on the kitchen windowsill. Assuming something bad had happened, I contacted the landlord, who told me he’d moved to a bigger flat around the corner. I asked for his number and messaged him immediately: You left in such a hurry you forgot your basil plant! I said. Let it die, came the reply, I’ve bought a new one.
Daily, weekly, I watched the magnificent basil plant wither into insignificance through the window, as my own trusty herb faded away in tandem, until it was nothing but a woody stalk with a few feeble leaves clinging on for dear life.
When Autumn arrived and, with it, a new tenant, I opened the recycling bin to discover the once magnificent basil plant rotting at the bottom. Heartbroken, I carefully retrieved it, placed it in my bicycle basket alongside my own deceased herbage, and buried them side by side in the park.
©JLO
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Previously Published on medium
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